Crimson and Ivory
by katkin
Summary: Surely this isn't right? Surely people don't bleed this quickly? Sherlock can't remember. He can't remember anything of use. He wipes at his face, smearing crimson on ivory.
1. Chapter 1

Part One: Crimson

There is such a thing as a dull criminal. Sherlock muses this as he's running through a back-alley in the dead of night. The alley smells of piss and wet tarmac. He can hear the haggard breath of his companion at his shoulder, and he wonders if the criminal they are chasing deserves their efforts. He is neither intelligent nor skilled. He's a common thug with no motivation but to kill people because they piss him off. It's the best Lestrade could offer though and it is a Friday night. Sherlock had promised John they'd go out for the night. He begins to think of dinner as his feet hit the damp paving slaps. It's for this reason, or so Sherlock imagines, that he is knocked off his feet by a dustbin lid that is hurled in his direction. Perhaps this criminal is becoming more inventive?

Sherlock looks up from the floor, and is unsurprised that John has caught up with the criminal; the latter rather foolishly comes to a halt to admire his own handy work. As Sherlock scrambles up from the floor, he sees John struggling with the assailant, and a strange strangled cry fills the air before the man pushes John away with force and continues to run. Sherlock is moving again now, rushing past John who is swaying on the spot in the middle of the alley.

"Are you alright?" It's a throw-away comment over Sherlock's shoulder. He's already passed John; mind now fully focused on the chase.

"I'm fine," says John, but it's not John, not his usual voice anyway, and there's something significantly changed in the man's tone that causes Sherlock to slow in confusion and look back at his friend, in time to see him collapse to the cold floor below him. Sherlock can hear the fading footsteps; the unimpressive assailant is getting away. It's no matter. Something else has grabbed Sherlock's attention and heart, and squeezed tightly.

He throws himself down at John's side, hearing the strange gurgling in place of John's regular breathing. Sherlock's face is puzzled as he lowers it down to John. He puts his hand automatically on John's chest, and feels the damp warmth on his palm. He lifts his hand up to the dim light and sees a stain of crimson.

Oh that is a surprise. Sherlock has always been mildly respectful of stab wounds. It's such a personal, upfront attack; none of the distance and anonymity of a bullet from afar. If done elegantly and correctly of course.

The colour has drained from John's face, and he's trying to smile reassuringly up at Sherlock. It makes Sherlock cross.

"It's just a scratch," John croaks, and his chest begins to rattle with every breath. Sherlock doesn't appreciate being lied to. He finds it insulting. He's not stupid, and John knows this. John is still smiling.

"Fuck!" Sherlock says, to the cold night air. "John, what do I do?"

"Ambulance?" The tone is suggestive and Sherlock wants to laugh. He_ really _wants to laugh. John would be laughing, if he could.

"Right." He fumbles for his phone, and bloody fingers jab at the screen. He hates the woman on the other end of the line, for being so calm and kind. He wants her to panic. He wants her to know that this is bloody John Watson, brilliant John Watson, and he doesn't deserve to die in some sodden alley.

"John? John!"

John's eyes are struggling to stay open, and he's shivering. Sherlock decides that it is the wet, cold floor causing this, and nothing else. He takes off his coat and puts it across John's body. He then takes his scarf and presses it against John's chest, in the hope that it'll do something...anything.

"You let him get away," John says quietly.

"I'll get him." It's a definite promise. This is inexcusable and personal. It got Sherlock's attention.

From further down in the alley, Sherlock hears the familiar voices of Lestrade and Donavon, mingled with their hurrying footsteps. He hears them skid to a halt, and take in the scene before them.

"Shit!" Lestrade hisses, and is also down on his knees. Sherlock shoves the bloodied phone in Lestrade's direction. Sally is hovering wide-eyed over the scene. Sherlock realises he's never seen Sally Donavon frightened before. That thought sends Sherlock suddenly nauseous. Sally abruptly snaps into action and pulls off her own jacket, placing it around Sherlock's shoulders. He finds the act rather odd, but accepts it. Had he be trembling?

Sally talks frantically to the D.I and then begins to clear the alleyway of bins; making way for the ambulance which Sherlock is certain will come at any moment. Lestrade is still talking away anxiously on the phone to the Emergency Services. Sherlock looks back down into the bleary eyes of his friend. As John blinks drowsily, a tear escapes out of the corner of his eye and runs down to his ear.

"I'm sorry," he says quiet and Sherlock finds himself shaking his head in irritation.

"Don't...just don't."

Sherlock grasps John's hand and presses it to his own chest, the stickiness of John's blood passing from palm to palm.

"John, stay with me. Talk to me."

John tries to smile. Words fail to form in John's mind so he begins to hum softly, to a tune that Sherlock doesn't recognise.

"We were good though, right?" John speaks up after a long moment and Sherlock finally begins to understand what heartache feels like. He can't breathe as he looks down at John who is blinking calmly back up at him. Sherlock wants to scream, to shake his shoulders, for a reaction other than this. John doesn't seem to be in pain, but he's very tired and shivering uncontrollably. Sherlock pulls John's shoulders from the ground and onto his knee, in the hope of keeping him warm.

"We will always be good," Sherlock insists. And there it is; the anxiety sets in on John's face as he realises what is coming, and Sherlock recalls that he wished it there. He pulls John's body closer to him, studying the pool of scarlet which surrounds them. Surely this isn't right? Surely people don't bleed this quickly? Sherlock can't remember. He can't remember anything of use. His mind is transfixed by the thought of John's heart pumping his life away. He wishes John's heart would slow; to realise that it's working against them. Grey eyes begin to sting madly and Sherlock is cross with himself. He wipes at his face, smearing crimson on ivory.

John's voice speaks up quietly, but resolutely.

"I love you."

"Don't," Sherlock pleads through gritted teeth. Angry tears fall on John's chest, adding to the fray.

"I do. You're bloody brilliant. I would...have stayed with you...forever." John struggles for breath and stops. It has taken all his energy. His eyelids begin to close heavily.

"I haven't finished with you yet," Sherlock insists desperately. He has never spoken a truer word. There is no reply. The silence is sickening. "John? John? Don't...Don't you do this to me!"

How had this all gone so horribly wrong? It was an easy case. Simple. Dull. Sherlock had not seen this coming. It was like some ridiculous dream. He suddenly hears a voice, which he realises is his own, shouting incoherently at Lestrade, Donavon, anybody who will listen. He can feel himself being dragged out from under John's body by a pair of firm hands, and through the blurriness of his vision he sees a composed Lestrade working frantically against John's chest, with rhythmic, pleading compresses. Sherlock has never been more grateful that Lestrade knows how to do something, and do it well. He's also never been more relieved; as the alley is filled with a sudden burst of noise and blue light.

Sherlock can't bring himself to look down at his friend, lying silent and motionless on the ground, as the paramedics arrive and move swiftly into action. He's vaguely aware of Lestrade taking most if not all of his weight with an arm around his waist. Sherlock wants to pull away, but he's not all together sure if he is conscious. His body is screaming at him to black out, but his brilliant mind is fighting it. His legs are hit by the wave of cold and numbness, where John's body had been moments before.

There is a quiet announcement of a faint pulse, and John is being whisked away towards the open doors of the ambulance. It's a brief moment before Sherlock realises he's being dragged in the opposite direction, towards a waiting police car. The lights are bright, and he winces in pain. His sodden coat is left behind; alone and ruined in the alley.

The car is moving fast; faster than Sherlock's mind can work. The siren is blaring, and Sherlock can't think. He needs to think. He can feel himself falling apart. In his head, he pictures John on the sofa, a mug in his hand. He pictures John laughing at a highly inappropriate moment. The memory of the laugh gets drowned out by the wail of the siren.

Is this what it's like to care? Sherlock finally begins to understand it now. It's inbuilt; an instinct. He couldn't care about strangers, it was unnatural to him. But this...he can't stop the flood of desperation which aches his chest. The victims, the bodies he has seen in his life time, they were just insignificant. But they had been someone's son, daughter, neighbour, lover...friend. Sherlock has never had a reason to care...until now. His brain notifies him smugly of his lack of oxygen seconds before he passes out.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: Ivory

Sherlock's not the same man that left Baker Street the night before. It's seven in the morning, and people are beginning their day as he's returning home and he finds the strength from somewhere to push himself from the car seat. He's surprised somewhat to find his key still in his trouser pocket. It sticks, as always, in the lock before the door is swung open. A sharp lump forms in this throat as he thinks of Mrs Hudson asleep further down the hall. He pushes the thought violently from his mind and staggers numbly up the stairs. The numbers run in sequence through his mind as he counts each step. It's easier than thinking about the loneliness which awaits him when he reaches the top. The door handle is cold and unwelcoming in his hand as he takes a step into the living room. It is silent and still. But he is not alone.

Stood in the centre of the room is his brother. Mycroft looks weary, concerned, and... old, Sherlock decides. He looks like their father. Sherlock wants to open his mouth to speak but he can't. His jaw is locked shut. Mycroft is taking a step towards him, and Sherlock doesn't recognise the strange sensation of having his brother's arms around him. A sudden, strangled sob escapes from Sherlock's aching chest, as his knees give way and his brother lowers him to the floor. Sherlock has never cried before, not even when their father died, and he didn't expect it to hurt so much. It really hurts. It aches his entire body as he curls up in Mycroft's lap and weeps. Long fingers stroke at the dark fringe, and the ivory skin of Sherlock's forehead. Mycroft is saying something in a low tone, but Sherlock can't hear it over his own haggard breath. He doesn't want to hear it. There isn't a word he could hear that would fix this. So he cries. It's what his body tells him to do. His mind has deserted him.

Eventually Sherlock wonders how long he's supposed to cry for. Crying is odd. It begins suddenly but is expected to fade away into nothing. The cause of the tears still remains. Surely he can't cry forever? That would be impractical. Instead, he feels his breath calming to a stagger on the inhale. The skin of his cheeks is tight from tears, and he rubs at his eyes in irritation.

"Stupid... Stupid," he mumbles, though he's not sure to whom. Does he feel better from letting the tears fall? Not really, and now his head is all stuffy and his vision unclear. Mycroft's arms are still around him, but Sherlock knows he won't speak. They stay there for some time on the living room floor, and Sherlock studies the grain in the wooden coffee table. He doesn't even register himself falling asleep.

It's a while later, when Sherlock wakes on the sofa. His brother is by his side in a light sleep. He looks just how Sherlock remembers as a boy. It's hard for him to comprehend that the boy from his childhood and the man beside him are one and the same. Mycroft has become so difficult and unwilling. So dull. It's a shame.

Sherlock moves carefully from the sofa and crosses to the window. It is now mid-morning, and the sun is attempting to show itself. He puts a hand on the wooden desk to steady himself, and his eye falls on a dusty photo frame on the shelf. John. A happy John. A drunk John, if Sherlock recalls correctly. His thumb moves slowly across John's face and feels the smooth, cold glass, not the warm touch of skin. The frame is placed down on the desk. If he's not careful, he'll fall apart again.

He has plans.

He fumbles with the drawer in the desk, before crossing the room. Stealing a glance at his older brother, he wonders whether Mycroft is really asleep; if he expects what is coming next. Either way, he doesn't stir on the sofa, and that is all the permission Sherlock needs as he slips silently out of the house.

The room Sherlock finds himself in some time later is dark, and grimy, and smells of damp. A torn, yellowing net curtain hangs in the window, and the light is attempting to find its way into the room from the dirty windows. Sherlock knows it's only a matter of time before the unkempt man lying on the grubby sofa in front of him wakes at the presence. A battered baseball bat hangs limply in the man's hand as he sleeps. It's thuggish and lacks intelligence or elegance. It makes Sherlock despise this man even more.

It takes a great deal of mental strength for Sherlock not to shoot the man as he sleeps, but he has a lot to say, so he waits for the sleepy eyelids to open. When they do, they reveal a frightened set of eyes, as the man scrambles up from the sofa, clutching desperately to his bat.

"I wanted to ask you if you realise that leaving my best friend to bleed to death in a putrid alleyway was the worst decision you've ever made in your life?" Sherlock speaks up, in a calm clear voice. The man is alarmed and dazed from his awakening. The fingers clutch tighter to the wooden handle of his bat, and Sherlock can see the white, desperate knuckles.

"I thought not."

The gun is raised steadily between them and the man's face pales. Sherlock's eyes search the man's expression for the slightest trace of regret, but all he finds is fear. From that moment, Sherlock's mind is set. The man emits a yelp as his knees buckle underneath him. He stammers out words that Sherlock is adamant he doesn't want to hear.

"I'd like to tell you about by best friend. John Watson; a wonderful man, loyal, brave, intelligent, funny... Very funny, in fact. I break people down, it's what I do. I'm very good at it. And in all of my life, I have never met a man quite like him...I'm certain I never will again." Sherlock is surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. He's ever-professional. He came here with a job to do, and he will see it through. "You see, John's the light on a particularly dark side of me. John stops me from doing irrational things; things that I might regret. If John were here now, I wouldn't be doing this..."

The gun is steady as he raises it to shoulder level.

"But John isn't here."

It doesn't please Sherlock to hear a human being pleading for his life. He does have some morals after all. He's not totally inhuman.

The man throws himself to the floor, shaking in fright as he pleads up at Sherlock.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he sobs. "... I never meant for him to die."

Sherlock scoffs loudly in disgust and his grey eyes become cold and hard as they fix the man with a stare of contempt. He's doing this for John; John who deserved to go out in a blaze of glory, fighting for his country. John who deserved to grow old with a wife and children. John who had been snatched away from him by this man and his brutal knife.

"That's even worse." There's no hesitation as Sherlock pulls the trigger.

Sherlock walks slowly home. He can't hear the sounds of the city around him. It's a strange sensation, like he's hearing it under water. He wonders if maybe he's drowning in the world around him. He tries to shake off the feeling of nausea, but his face becomes pale and clammy. Stopping at the nearest newsagents, Sherlock buys himself a packet of cigarettes and takes off the plastic wrapping with ease. Long, elegant fingers toy with the a little white stick. Sherlock relishes in a cigarette, followed by two more in quick succession.

The rest of the packet is tossed into the Thames along with the handgun.

Sherlock makes his way back up the stairs of 221b for the second time that morning, and his brother is waiting patiently for him on the sofa. A quick glance is exchanged and Sherlock knows that Mycroft is fully aware of what he's done. He doesn't care though. Mycroft knows better than to speak. The brothers meet again in the middle of the room, and Mycroft places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes ever so slightly, before he heads silently to the stairs.

Sherlock stands in the centre of the room, alone for the first time, and breathes in the silence and familiarity. A ball of frustration builds up in his stomach. He's irritated. Highly irritated. So much time, effort – emotion too maybe – used and wasted on a person who has gone. It's like a complex jigsaw, missing the final piece. Sherlock should never have started it.

He lowers himself down into his armchair and grabs instinctively for his violin, plucking out a tune of random, discordant notes. He's pleased with them. His mind wanders to the hospital and the feel of cold, pallid flesh under his fingertips. He's never studied a lifeless face in such detail before. He doesn't want to forget John, but it's inevitable. It's how his mind works. Eventually, there will be nothing left.

Sherlock thinks of Harry, and a painted coffin, and a proper church funeral with servicemen and formality. It will all be very proper. John was always so proper. Sherlock doesn't like how his thoughts have taken charge again so he frowns and plays louder.

Upon the mantelpiece the domed skull grins down at him. Sherlock looks at it and knows he's neglected it for far too long. The violin is placed in his lap, and long delicate fingers steeple under his chin as he lets out a long slow breath, closes his eyes and waits for the purpose; the drive that Sherlock Holmes used to be about. Solely about. He was never much of a team player. There's too much to lose. He knows now that he's better off playing alone.

He waits for the phone to ring...


End file.
